Miss Kitty has thrown down the gauntlet.

As Miss Kitty has refused to remove those outrageous and trashy UGA stickers from my old pickup truck, I am now forced to fire a warning shot over her skunky red-and-black bow with a little story about said wayward English professor.

When we were kids and forced to share a bed because out-of-town guests were staying over, I hated it. It's not that I minded the company per se. Kitty and I have always--always--been extremely close. However, Miss Kitty makes for a terrible sleeping partner. She kicks, she steals cover, and she talks in her sleep. An eight-hour night with her results in only about two hours of real sleep for da Pixie, cuz it goes a little sum'n like this: her foot makes contact with my knee, then she rolls one way and the other to pull the comforter off my feet, then she mumbles something incoherent. I turn over to try to ignore her. Bad mistake: I get a foot in the ass and all blankets are removed from my torso. Then she mumbles something else.

Sometimes kids grow out of this. Our Kitty, alas, did not. In college, we had to share my bed when guests stayed in hers one holiday weekend. Within fifteen minutes of lights out, the rumpus began.

Kick.
Grab.
Punt.
Yank.

I yanked the blankets back from her linen-greedy paws and rolled over onto my back. She got still, and just as I was about to drift off to dreamland....she sits up in bed. She sits up, leans over her knees, pauses, and says:

"Needs more sauce."

WHUMP! She collapsed backwards again and didn't. move. a muscle. the rest. of the night.

Meanwhile, on the other half of an increasingly too-small bed, inquiring minds want to know what the fuck needs more sauce and why was this the moment to share this revelation. Asking her this the next morning provided no solutions.

"I said what?" Kitty asked.
"Needs more sauce," I replied. "What the hell were you dreaming?"
"I didn't have any dreams last night," she said. She gave me a skeptical grimace. "What did I say? 'Needs more sauce'?"
"Yes. Evidently, we were in need of sauce last night, or at least more of it."
Kitty shook her head. "I don't remember saying that."

She did it again when I was home alone for Christmas before Guy was able to fly into town for the weekend. We were snuggled up under her homemade quilts, listening to the rainfall outside and NPR on her little radio, and about four in the morning, she turned over, held up a hand and said, "Well, if it's not gonna work they need to try something else."

I stirred. Renee Montagne was on NPR talking with a guest about a recipe for holiday cheese balls. "If what doesn't work?" I asked.

No answer. The Mystic Oracle of Random Bullshit was done for the morning.